


No One to Stop Him

by LostCybertronian



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood and Injury, M/M, Protective!Cecil, Torture, nonhuman!Cecil, writing implements are illegal Carlos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:08:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23105983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostCybertronian/pseuds/LostCybertronian
Summary: Carlos is arrested for possession of illegal writing implements and taken to City Hall for reeducation. Cecil rescues him, and delivers a brutal message to the Secret Police that, if they should ever touch Carlos again, they'll be very sorry.
Relationships: Cecil Palmer/Carlos Ramirez, Cecilos
Comments: 2
Kudos: 176





	No One to Stop Him

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a post I saw on Tumblr about a character blowing up when their s/o is threatened, and losing control of themselves/their powers to the point where only their s/o can calm them down again.   
> I also really like the idea that Cecil has some abilities (like he can talk REALLY LOUD) and his tattoos/eyes glow when he uses said abilities/loses control of his emotions.

It was not unlikely-- not improbable, even-- that Cecil had abilities Carlos didn’t know about. Abilities beyond the eerie present-time narration and black-coffee voice, not to mention the odd, concave line tattooed at the center of his forehead. After all the scientifically impossible people he’d met, and the scientifically impossible nature of Night Vale itself, it seemed . . . well, scientifically impossible that Cecil would not fit within the mold.   
But, despite his curiosity, Carlos never asked. How would he even go about starting a conversation like that? Certainly not with an _oh hey, I have a hypothesis that you might be just as weird as the rest of this town. Do you mind if I run a few tests?_  
Carlos shook his head as he absentmindedly drew a few Greek letters in the margins of his notes with his pen. He wasn’t about to do that.  
_Speaking of Cecil._ Carlos reached for his phone, intending to text Cecil and ask what he wanted to do that night, but before he could even so much as pull up Cecil’s name the door to his laboratory burst open and, with the deafening wail of sirens and the whir-chop of helicopter blades, heavily-armored figures with the words “Night Vale Secret Police” emblazoned on their chests in large, purple letters came flooding in.  
“What’s going on?” Carlos froze in place, unable to think or move as officers dragged him from his seat, forcing him to his knees and wrenching his head painfully back. “Sam?”  
The Sheriff looked almost apologetic as they stepped forward, but then their eyes flashed to Carlos’s pen, which still lay on his desk, and they narrowed. “As I suspected,” he said. “By decree of the City Council, I hereby arrest you for unlawful possession of writing implements and order you to report to City Hall for reeducation.”  
“Wait!” Carlos cried, gathering his wits enough to struggle against the arms that held him. “You can’t- _stop!”_  
But it was no use: at Sam’s word Carlos was dragged from his lab.  
\---  
“-and that was the end of that. No survivors, and no more cheese.” There was the rustling of papers as Cecil adjusted his stack of notes. “So sad, listeners. So sad. I was looking forward to trying some of that Gouda. Now, let’s take a look at-”  
He paused as Intern Maria burst through his studio door, white-faced and waving a piece of paper. She deposited it on his desk before turning and all but running from the room.  
“Maria?” He called after her, to no avail; she was gone.   
Cecil picked up the paper, leaning toward his mic once more. “I have just received some breaking news, listeners. Let’s see. It says here that the Sheriff’s Secret Police have made an arrest, claiming need for reeducation due to an abundance of illegal writing implements found in the home. Carlos Palmer has been brought in . . .”  
He trailed off, and there was a long, staticky pause. When he spoke again, his voice was tight. “Dearest listeners, I’m afraid I must direct you to the weather.”  
Even before the weather report began Cecil was shutting his mic, abandoning his headphones, and standing up. He was out the door seconds later, his fists clenched at his sides as he brushed past his frightened-looking intern, leaving the station without another word.  
By the time Cecil reached City Hall his rage was a palpable thing; the tattoos on his forearms glowing faintly, and his eyes doing the same. The line on his forehead remained a line, for now.  
It did not, however, stay that way for long; Cecil’s anger grew as he entered City Hall, as he shoved past the receptionist, as he stormed the hallways, as he reached the door to the City Council’s office. It expanded from a concave line to an eye, wide and flaring purple. It glared up at the City Council as Cecil boomed, “Where is Carlos?”  
The single-bodied, multi-head entity hissed its displeasure. “He requires reeducation, and will be deposited at his place of residence once it has been completed.”  
“I will not say this again.” Cecil’s voice rose, rose, rose, until the window-panes shook. Until they shattered completely. It was now that the City Council shrank back, knowing, somehow, that to test the Voice of Night Vale would be to seal its own fate. _“Where. Is. Carlos?”_  
\---  
_Reeducation is bloody,_ Carlos realized, as the baton connected with his jaw with the resounding crack of snapping bone. Cecil had never told him this.   
His vision swam in and out of focus, yet he could still see Sheriff Sam clearly. Could see the mocking curl of their lip. His ears rang, but he could still hear the snarled, “what are writing implements for?”  
“For writing,” Carlos mumbled, voice emerging through the gurgle of blood and the grating of bone shards. He thought of the Greek letters he’d been doodling, of the swirled omega and the looping alpha. But his mind spun with fresh agony as Sam flicked his fingers, as the officer hit him again.  
“Incorrect,” Sam said, but this time Carlos barely heard him; not past the crawling blackness at the fringes of his vision that also seemed to be creeping into his ears.  
Shock was setting in, he realized, through the muddiness of pain. Shock and blood-loss was making him dizzy. Leaching his consciousness. Would Sam stand by and let him die over a pen?  
The Sheriff spoke again, but it sounded like garbled nonsense. Carlos shut his swollen eyes, bracing for a blow that didn’t come.  
Because instead, there was a voice. _“Carlos!”_  
_Cecil?_ He wondered idly, but didn’t say a word; his tongue felt bloody and thick in his mouth. _What is Cecil doing here?_  
He managed to force his eyes open just in time to catch a flash of purple light. Just in time to see Sam fly past him, hit the wall, and slump. Just in time to see Cecil, his tattoos and eyes lit up like the lights above the Arby’s, a third eye that Carlos had never seen before at the center of his forehead.   
_“If you lay one more hand on him-"_ Cecil was furious. White-hot rage rushed like magma through his veins, only growing hotter when he laid eyes on his husband’s bloodied form. Before he could even think about what he was doing Sam was colliding with the wall, the back of their head making contact with a sickening thump. The other officer-- the one with the baton, who had clearly been doing Sam’s dirty work-- suffered a much more violent treatment, though Cecil would not remember looking back.   
He would demolish the Secret Police. They would regret the day they ever touched a hair on Carlos’s head.  
But then-  
“Cecil?” Carlos’s voice was small. Choked. Its effect was immediate; Cecil abandoned his rampage and hurried to Carlos’s side, the purple light emanating from him fading to nothingness, and his third eye sliding shut.  
“I’m here, Carlos,” he whispered, reaching for the knots tying Carlos’s hands behind his back, undoing them with clumsy fingers. “I’m here.”  
“Cecil,” Carlos said again, his eyes fluttering shut, his body slumping into unconsciousness.  
Cecil took his hand and squeezed it, then gathered the scientist into his arms, cradling him to his chest as if he weighed nothing and paying no attention whatsoever to the blood soaking into his clothes.  
The Secret Police officers too received nothing from him as he turned, shoes clicking over the tile as he made for the door, sure that no one would try to stop him.


End file.
